Weighing One's Worth
by RascalJoy
Summary: There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him. Then, "What are you doing?" (Unofficial sequel to 'Of Milkshakes and Marathons.' Very easily stands alone.) **Sequel, "Focus on the Fallout," now UP**
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** : Well, this little one-shot (two/three-shot?) was eight months in the making XD

I have no explanation except at the time I had been reading a lot of incogneat-oh's fics and headcanons and the Tim!feels were simply too much to bear. So this idea came about, and I finally finished it. Nearly a year later.

Currently debating whether or not to do Damian's POV. Also, I wanted to have a scene with Dick finding them at the end, but then that would open up a much bigger issue to address that can't be covered within this chapter. We shall see where this goes...

 **WARNING: Rated HIGH T for suicidal thoughts and attempted suicide. Read at your own risk.**

Well...enjoy, I suppose?

* * *

 _So you thought you had to keep this up_

 _All the work that you do so we think that you're good_

 _And you can't believe it's not enough_

 _All the walls you built up are just glass on the outside_

 _~ "Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North_

* * *

There were good nights. There were bad nights. There were somewhere in between nights. There were great nights. There were horrible nights. And then there were nights when you really began to wonder if it was really even worth the fight at all.

Tonight was one of those nights.

Everyone copes with things differently. Tim? Well, he typically ended up curled up in the tiny space between his bed and the wall, cynically considering his options. One of which included a handgun tucked away in a shoebox under the floorboards.

A handgun that now found itself hanging heavy in his hand.

There were definitely other, less violent ways to end it all. Downing a couple pills, braining himself on the bedside table, slitting his wrists and bleeding out on the bathroom floor... But Tim didn't need any more time to think. Nothing was faster or more efficient than a bullet to the head. It was also less painful, though he tried not to think about the selfishness of that.

Not to mention the irony of using a gun, the start of Batman's career and, in essence, the beginning of Red Robin's.

Tim had thought it through. He had never been one to rush into something, especially such a life-changing—he held back a snort—decision as the one he was about to make.

The best part? No one even knew what Tim really felt.

Because Tim was an expert liar. Actually, better than expert. It came as naturally to him as breathing. He supposed that should probably disturb him, but it didn't. It happened to be a very useful skill in the face of nosy coworkers, friends, and relatives. Lies were nearly always easier to face than the truth.

Hiding his true feelings was one such lie. Facades and masks defined him, his true emotions corked tightly within a bottle inside, never ever to see the light of day; only the waning moonlight filtering through the curtains of his apartment, or, at the moment, his Wayne Manor bedroom. This practice of falsehood had extended to himself, almost so he was convinced he was okay; that he could handle the horrible stress and pain that was life.

He remembered the time when he'd hated the lying involved with the mask: to his father, to his friends, wanting nothing more than to give them a straight answer for once. But now...

Well. There comes a time when even the best liars start to crack.

And if Tim was being honest (haha), he lied to himself as often, if not more frequently than he did to his friends and...family.

Could he even call them his family? Sure, it was all down on paper, but just like blood, ink wasn't what made a family family.

His fingers ghosted over the safety mechanism, hesitating before flicking it off.

Replacement. Pretender.

At least Jason knew what Tim really was.

Tim had practically forced his way into this secret life in his desperation to be Robin after Jason's death. He had never been Robin; not really. He had been (still was) unwanted and unchosen. The outsider in Bruce's hand-picked family. Why should he even bother sticking around if no one had ever really wanted him in the first place?

A harsh laugh escaped his throat. After all the pain, all the danger, all the narrow escapes brought on by patrolling the streets of Gotham, the mighty Red Robin was going to go down via a handgun by his own volition. The irony.

Rock steady, he raised the gun barrel to his temple, the cold tip pressing against his scalp. He couldn't fight this feeling anymore. It was better for everyone this way. Closing his eyes, he wrapped his finger around the trigger.

"Drake!" called a familiar voice, shattering the previous silence as Tim's room door flew open (hadn't Tim locked it?) and slammed into the opposite wall. Before Tim could overcome his shock and slide the gun under the bed, footsteps echoed across the room.

"Grayson is..." The pompous voice trailed off, a tiny shadow stretching along the wall pausing at the foot of the bed as its owner halted his footsteps.

There was a beat of tense silence, during which Tim could feel the youngest Wayne's gaze boring into him, taking in the scene before him. He lowered the gun, an admittedly useless gesture: Damian had already seen him.

Then, "What are you doing?" Damian asked carefully, cynically—uncaringly.

"It's...it's not what it looks like," Tim managed, cheeks flushing at being caught by the brat, of all people. Well...the brat was better than Bruce or Dick. At least Damian wouldn't try to stop him. "Go away."

"It looks like you're about to do something either profoundly smart, or ridiculously stupid," Damian said, completely ignoring Tim's last statement.

"And why would you care?" Tim countered, finally glaring up at the smaller boy.

Crystal blue eyes stared down at him, not a single emotion crossing the 10-year-old's face. He didn't respond.

The minutes ticked by, Tim's initial discomfort being overcome by anger at Damian's lack of response. "Look," he snapped, "my business is my business. You can stay or go away, I don't care. But staring at me won't get you anywhere."

No reply. Well, he'd given him a chance.

Damian watched him in continued silence, eyes narrowed as Tim double-checked the safety was off, raising the barrel to his head.

Briefly, Tim wondered if this was really appropriate to be doing in front of a 10-year-old. He immediately dismissed the thought. This was a baby assassin who'd been killing since birth and who'd been not-so-secretly wishing Tim's demise since the day they'd met. To him, this would be a show.

Why not go out entertaining the brat? If he couldn't satisfy his peers, why not the son?

His finger tensed on the trigger.

"Stop."

Tim flinched at the sound. It wasn't quite an order. Damian almost sounded...young. Like his age, for once.

"If you're insistent upon doing this," Damian said, tone deceptively flat, "you'd better have a good reason, Drake."

Tim blinked. "It's not that simple."

Damian folded his arms over his chest. "I've got time."

Surprised, Tim hesitated. The truth pressed up against the lies, squeezing under his skin and begging to be set free. But after all these years, could he really just let them go? "No one would notice if I was gone anyway," he murmured, bidding for time.

Raising an eyebrow, Damian said, "Care to elaborate?"

Before Tim could make up his mind whether to actually answer the brat or not, his mouth decided for him: "From the beginning, Bruce never chose me as his Robin. I had to force him to take me on, to give me a chance. Heck, even _Dick_ didn't want me to be Robin. I had to earn the right to the role."

Tim ran a hand through his hair, taking a shaky breath. "In a way, I was proud. Dick and Jason became Robin because Batman picked them, trained them, taught them everything he knew because he _wanted_ to. I proved myself to him, showed him I could do everything...well, nearly everything that Dick and Jason could do and live to tell the tale. But that came at a price: Bruce refused to accept me completely as his partner.

"To him, I was—am—just an expendable asset, another soldier in his endless, self-driven crusade. I don't think I ever made the rank of equal in his eyes. Not like Dick and Jason did."

Impassive blue eyes stared down at him. Tim imagined he heard the brat mutter under his breath, "That's not true," but Tim was already launching into his next justification, unable to stop the flow of words now that he'd finally loosened the cork on his pent up emotions.

"I'm just a packhorse. The one in charge of all the projects nobody wants to do. Even as I sit here, the work keeps piling up. I just can't _deal_ with all this anymore. Patrol, Wayne Enterprises, the Teen Titans, Bruce's cases..." He closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his free hand into his eye, fighting back the overwhelming pressure of panic squeezing his heart. "Too much. Nothing I do is enough, never satisfy anyone, never good enough. I can't..." He huffs, breath hitching slightly on the intake. "As you've kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, no one will even notice when my incompetency is gone."

Out of breath, he glared at the 10-year-old mulishly. "And why am I telling you all this? You never wanted me to exist in the first place."

Damian made no move to either confirm or deny that fact. Not that it mattered. Tim could practically see the gears turning in his little head as the demon attempted to drop the blame on someone else.

"Nobody will miss me much," Tim said matter-of-factly, hammering the final nail in his own coffin. "I mean, they might be sad for awhile, but they'll get over it."

There was a tense silence, two pairs of blue eyes glaring stoically into each other.

"Father will mourn you till the day he dies," Damian stated flatly, startling Tim at the sudden interruption from the formerly impassive boy. "Grayson will go crazy with guilt and grief, berating himself for not being a better big brother before he falls apart completely. Todd will blow a gasket and murder every criminal in Arkham. Cain would distance herself and spend years trying to figure out where she went wrong. Pennyworth's heart would break into a million pieces—again." The young hero fixed Tim with a glare worthy of the Bat. "And I would hate you for destroying our family with your selfishness."

Tim swallowed thickly, hesitating. "You already hate me," he offered weakly.

Damian tutted. "What does my opinion matter? You have won the affections of Grayson, my father, and a whole team of young superheroes. Not to mention Cain and Todd. What do you think the latter two would do if they caught you like this?"

Tim winced at the mental picture.

"Especially Superboy," Damian added. Then, not quite an afterthought: "Even I don't actually hate you."

At that, Tim shot him an incredulous look.

"That much," the baby assassin corrected.

Their eyes locked, blue on blue; one pair challenging, the other stubbornly stoic.

Tim huffed. "Fine." He allowed the barrel of the gun to drop, swinging it to face the wall. "Funk over. You can go now."

"Give me the gun, Drake."

Tim blinked. "Why?"

Damian snorted. "If you're truly not planning on blowing your idiotic brains out the moment I step out of this room, then give. Me. The gun."

Tim hesitated. It couldn't be that simple...could it?

No. It was too late. Damian already knew, so if Tim didn't go through with this he'd run the very high risk of the rest of the Bats finding out. Tim didn't think he could stand that; he could practically see the disappointment in Bruce's eyes as yet another of his soldiers failed his mission...

Almost absently, he buried the gun barrel back into his hair. His finger tensed on the trigger.

Missing nothing, Damian's eyes flared. "Very well, Drake," he announced imperiously. "If you're going, you're going to have to take me with you." Before Tim could blink, a knife was in the child's hand, the gleaming tip pressed against Damian's jugular.

"If you refuse to believe everyone—and I mean _everyone_ —will miss you, think of what my father and Grayson would do if they saw me dead," Damian challenged. "And don't think for one second I won't go through with it if you dare pull that trigger, Drake."

Of all the ways this could have gone down from the moment Damian walked through the door, Tim would never have thought of this outcome in a million years.

Tim blinked slowly.

But no. Damian still stood before him, the razor sharp knife pressing dangerously into his own neck, an almost wild glint in his eyes.

"Because people _will_ miss you, Drake," Damian continued in a strange, almost choked tone. "I only have Grayson and father. But you...you've got actual friends and family who love you not because of what you can _do_ , but just because you're _you_. And that's good enough for them."

Blinking rapidly, Damian's eyes seemed to be shining a little brighter in the lowlight.

"They accept you for who you are, and when you make a mistake, they forgive you," he continued with a barely noticeable sniff. "They cry with you when you are sad, and laugh along when you are happy. If that's not love, then my interpretations of the concept are inaccurate. And I am never wrong."

"Damian," Tim sighed shakily. "You don't know what you're doing. Put the knife down."

"No, it's _you_ who doesn't know what you're doing, Drake," Damian growled. "If you die, everyone is going to shatter with you. And if the only way to make you see sense is to threaten my own life, then so be it."

Tim stared. And then it clicked. "You're trying to guilt trip me," he realized.

Damian smirked savagely, a sick, twisted little smile that had no place on such a young face. "I refuse to let you break this family," he said levelly. "It's the only family I have left. So you remove your fingers from that gun, and I'll drop the knife. It's that simple."

Tim hesitated. The gun suddenly seemed very _there_ in his hand; the solid weight of the warming barrel pressed against his head and tickling his scalp, the pad of his finger wrapped around the trigger. He became aware of every breath in his lungs hissing through his larynx to his nose, of his heart beating slightly faster in his chest. All of his body parts functioning as one in a beautiful creation for the sole purpose of keeping Tim alive.

Doubt crept in at the edges for the first time since he'd made his life-changing—ha, still funny the second time 'round—decision. Maybe...maybe this wasn't the answer he was looking for.

Staring up at Damian, Tim could swear the demon's lower lip was trembling slightly. "Go ahead," the boy challenged, steel blue eyes sending him a silent challenge over the glistening edge of the knife digging into his skin. "Prove how much of a coward you are, _Drake_. Do it."

Blood pumping through his veins, hairs on the back of his neck bristling at a phantom chill, sweat trickling down his forehead, sweater rubbing irritatingly along his collar bone...

The family would be devastated at another death, especially if it was at Tim's own hands rather than an actual Gotham villain. After all, yourself wasn't supposed to be included as a "flight risk."

Damian was right. Tim was a selfish coward. Selfish to believe that his death would affect no one, that his work would take care of itself if he were gone. A coward because he was desperate enough to try and take the easy way out rather than suck it up and face his mountain of problems.

Maybe...maybe he didn't have to go through life alone.

If Damian, of all people—the one who'd tried to kill him when they'd first met, the one who threatened to murder him on a weekly basis, the one who daily insulted Tim's very _existence_ —was trying to talk him out of it...

He cared. To some degree, the one Tim was sure hated his guts cared whether Tim lived or died.

And at that moment, Tim had never felt more alive.

Almost numb, his grip loosened on the weapon, fingers shaking as his muscles mushed into jelly.

Before he'd dropped it hardly an inch, the gun was snatched from his hands, the former assassin snapping open the cartridge and emptying the bullets onto the floor with one quick motion. With a look of utter distaste, Damian tossed the weapon into the corner, along with the knife that had somehow slipped past both Bruce's and Alfred's scrutiny.

Silently, Damian dropped to the floor at Tim's side. What he did next took Tim a moment to process: the Bat's son scooted closer, leaning forward and pressing his cheek against Tim's chest, even as one arm snaked around Tim's middle to grasp firmly at the fabric of Tim's sweater.

Tim stared. Damian...was _cuddling_?

The bundle of assassin huddled at his side radiated heat, slowly warming against Tim's side. He hadn't realized how cold he was until the little furnace decided to crawl up next to him.

It was...nice.

"Don't kill yourself," Damian whispered, so low Tim could barely hear him. "I would never forgive myself."

Not Dick. Not Bruce. _Damian_ would never forgive himself.

"You've been spending too much time with Dick," Tim managed weakly.

"Tt. Just shut up and go to sleep, Drake."


	2. Chapter 2

**5-28-16**

 **A/N** : Woooooo. Well, this was fun XD

School's over, guys! That means updates! :D

First off, thank you for all your lovely responses! :D You would not believe how terrified I was of posting this, as this is the first time I've tried anything like it on Fanfiction. You guys are amazing. Thanks for your patience in waiting for this chapter, too ;D

 **IMPORTANT** : Okay, so here's the plan. This is going to be the end of this particular story. I've decided to post the Dick part as a separate story because a). It's getting extremely long and complicated, and b). I really want to keep this particular fic focused on Tim and Damian. So expect that one hopefully within the next couple months, as I'm still working out some kinks. I'll post the fic title here when it's up.

Also, this is now the sort of sequel to my other fic "Of Milkshakes and Marathons" but that fic is not required in order to understand this chapter. In fact, all references to OMaM will be in the Dick fic anyway.

(Added lyrics at the start of the first chapter if you want to go see!)

Hope this meets expectations! Enjoy :)

* * *

 _So let 'em fall down_

 _There's freedom waiting in the sound_

 _When you let your walls fall to the ground_

 _We're here now_

 _~ "Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North_

* * *

There were good days. There were bad days. There were somewhere in between days. There were interesting days. There were tiresome days. And then there were those days that could only be described as terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days.

Today was one of those days.

It wasn't Damian's fault that his imbecilic history teacher couldn't seem to get the facts straight regarding the purposes behind World War I. And it certainly wasn't his fault that Damian's perfectly structured, perfectly _accurate_ essay on said topic was given an 'F' for 'misunderstanding the concept.' Damian understood the concept quite well, as a matter of fact. It was Professor Hughes who was in desperate need of being enlightened on the truth of the matter if he were to dare continue boasting a supposed doctorate in history, and not end up selling peanuts on the streets.

Damian's only actual mistake in this incident was proclaiming that last bit out loud. To his teacher. In front of the class.

Professor Hughes' face had flushed a rather interesting shade of red; right before he ordered Damian to the principal's office.

While the resulting suspension in itself didn't bother him (anything to escape the humdrum existence of Gotham's top private school), what did grate on his nerves was the fact that he was no longer allowed out on patrol until he redid the assignment in question and agreed to apologize to his idiot teacher when he returned to the classroom.

But what bothered him the most, though he would never admit it out loud, was the utter disappointment on his father's face at Damian's repeated failure to behave.

All in all, Damian was in a particularly foul mood as he stormed through the hallway toward his bedroom, intent on either etching a few violent images in his sketchbook or destroying various pieces of furniture—he hadn't quite decided which yet.

So when a certain Timothy Drake was visible cresting the top of the stairs with suitcase in hand, Damian was more than willing to make his least favorite person in the Manor just as miserable as he was.

"Back again, Drake?" he sneered. "Has your own inadequacy become so apparent that you can't stand your own company anymore?"

Tim froze, one hand resting on the door handle to his so-called "room," the other, to Damian's delight, clenching a little tighter on the handle of his suitcase.

"Nice to see you, too, Damian," Tim said wearily, side-eyeing him through his bangs.

"Why do you insist on returning when no one wants you here?" Damian questioned, cocking his head and feigning curiosity. "Would save yourself the trouble of coming all this way only to be severely disappointed by your lack of welcome."

The corner of Tim's mouth twitched downward. "For your information," he gritted out, a furrow deepening between his brows. "I was invited."

Damian scoffed. "By whom? Pennyworth? Because I _know_ it wasn't father."

Tim stiffened. "Dick, actually," he replied. Stiff. Clipped. _Off_.

"Tt. His opinion hardly counts. If it wasn't for his antiquated sense of loyalty to perceived family, he would never have bothered to extend the invitation. You're just another orphaned pity case Bruce picked up that we're all stuck dealing with. Surely you know that already, _Drake_."

When Tim made no move to reply, Damian continued with a smirk, "Honestly, I don't know why you even try anymore. Don't you have better things to do than loiter around wasting people's time? No one will notice if you just disappe—"

"Damian," Tim interrupted levelly, and something about his tone caused Damian to pause. "Look, I know you hate me. Feeling's mutual. But please, could you just _stop_ for _one second_. I just..." He took a shuddering breath, running a hand through his shaggy hair. "I can't take your crap right now, okay? Just once, could you _please_ not make me feel more miserable than I already am."

Damian blinked in surprise, mouth open in a silent retort.

But Tim had already slipped through the doorway, the latch on his bedroom door clicking softly into place before Damian could find his voice.

* * *

Damian had no reason to be worried about Tim.

 _WHAP._

He didn't give a katana hilt what the third so-called "Robin" felt or did in his spare time.

 _SMACK._

But that look in his eyes... More than the usual faint annoyance and exasperation that flickered whenever they came in contact with Damian despite Tim's obvious efforts to hide it. That look...that look had been _lost_. Empty. _Dead_.

 _CRASH!_

The chain holding the punching bag up shattered as a weak link gave way to Damian's pounding. The heavy sand-filled object finished its arc up and forward before slamming almost comically into the hard rock floor, sending bats squeaking in alarm amongst the shadows of the cave ceiling.

Damian stood over his fallen "foe," chest heaving from exertion. He became aware of Dick's eyes on him, attracted away from the many screens of the Batcomputer by the sound.

"That's the third this month," Dick commented. "Might want to find another way to vent some of that anger, Dami."

Damian snorted, kicking the wretched object with his bare foot and releasing a soft hiss as he stunned his toe against the hard fabric. Cursing under his breath, he shook the afflicted foot in the air.

The moment the pain dulled to a low throb, Damian stalked toward the showers, ignoring Dick's sympathetic gaze following him across the cave.

Twenty minutes later, Damian stepped back into the dull glow of the Batcomputer's many screens, scrubbing his damp hair with a towel.

Dick hadn't moved since he'd left, still staring intently at the main screen. A quick glance revealed that it was the exact same report he'd been scanning before Damian's shower.

Judging from the man's furrowed brows and scrunched up features, Damian figured whatever random thought the man was stuck on wasn't going to stay secret for long. (Grayson had never been very good at keeping his big mouth shut.)

Sure enough, "Hey, Damian," Dick called, a small frown dragging at the corners of his lips. "Have you seen Tim today? He was supposed to come over for the weekend."

Damian hesitated a moment. "No," he lied. "Why?"

Frowning deeper, Dick shook his head. "No particular reason. I just... Could you go check on him, please? Make sure he's settled in okay."

Damian rolled his eyes, realizing that if he argued Dick would probably make him do something even more humiliating such as inquiring as to how Drake's trip went. "Fine. Whatever." He swung the towel onto a nearby rack, grabbing his hoodie and throwing it on over his T-shirt as he stalked toward the stairs.

"And Damian?" Dick added, turning with a concerned, pleading expression that made Damian's stomach clench nervously. "Try to keep the wisecracks to a minimum, 'kay? It took me a month to convince him to visit, and I want to make sure he still feels welco—he's comfortable here."

Swallowing a lump that may have been guilt, Damian nodded. "I can do that."

* * *

It was a lengthy trip up from the Cave to the second floor. Rather, Damian dragged his feet as much as possible, attempting to form some half-polite thing to say to Drake that would be nice enough to pass Grayson's muster, but not nice enough that Drake would actually do something stupid like try to bond with him.

Nonetheless, by the time he reached his so-called predecessor's door, his stomach was tying itself in knots from a feeling Damian didn't dare identify.

He had no reason to be nervous. No matter that the teen was bound to be ticked at him for his little tirade earlier. This was Drake, after all. Emotionless, incorrigible Drake who was honestly quite pathetic in comparison to Grayson and himself. (At least, that's what Damian told himself.)

But that _look_ on his face...

Damian shook his head. No. No time to be weak. He reached out to turn the knob, and...it didn't move. Locked.

Frowning in irritation at the unanticipated obstruction, he fished his lock picks out of his pocket (he'd been planning on breaking into the cookie jar later) and jimmying the ancient lock open in seconds.

His hand hovered over the brass knob, fingers curling around the stem.

No hesitation. No regret. Get this over with.

Taking a deep breath, Damian stormed through the now unlocked door, pounding his feet into the hardwood for dramatic effect. "Drake!" There was no sign of him either on the bed, or at the neatly arranged desk the imbecile spent his life at. On a hunch, Damian stomped around the foot of the bed, rounding the corner to peer into the cramped space between the mattress and the wall. "Grayson is..." Damian faltered. Blinked. Stared.

Drake had a gun. Drake had a _gun_ in his _hand_ , digging into his scalp, safety off, fingers tensed around the trigger as if he'd been about to pull.

The teen's face, despite being firmly fixed on the wall in front of him, reflected panic, eyeing Damian's shadow like it would swallow him whole if he made any sudden moves. The gun dropped slightly in an aborted attempt to hide it from Damian's view. But it was too late. Damian had seen _everything_.

This...this was not what he'd expected.

Damian opened his mouth, then quickly closed it at the husky wheeze that escaped, hoping against hope Drake hadn't heard him. Swallowed. Tried again: "What are you doing?"

"It's...it's not what it looks like," Drake said, refusing to meet his eyes as red from either anger or embarrassment, Damian wasn't sure, tinged his cheeks. "Go away."

"It looks like you're about to do something either profoundly smart, or ridiculously stupid," Damian observed, fighting to remain indifferent.

"And why would you care?" the elder countered, shattered blue eyes hard and glaring.

Damian almost drew breath to respond, but hesitated. There really was no answer to that. Why _would_ Damian care?

 _Because this is all your fault_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispered.

"Look," Tim snapped eventually, breaking the silence stretching between them, "my business is my business. You can stay or go away, I don't care. But staring at me won't get you anywhere."

Damian continued staring anyway, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as a steady lump grew in his throat. What was he supposed to say? How did this happen? Of all the people in this family with the potential to be suicidal, Drake would have been the last...

Reality slammed back in a rush as Tim checked the safety on the gun, burying the barrel into his hair. Damian's eyes narrowed as Tim took a half breath, brows slightly furrowed over determined blue eyes.

Tim's finger tensed on the trigger.

When Damian finally found his voice, it didn't quite sound his own: "Stop."

And...Tim _did_. Flinching at the sound of his voice, he glanced up at Damian with one confused blue eye.

Damian silently swallowed, determined not to sound so much like a...a _child_ again. "If you're insistent upon doing this," he said, forcing a flat, disinterested tone, "you'd better have a good reason, Drake."

The teen blinked. "It's not that simple."

Determined, Damian crossed his arms over his chest. "I've got time."

Tim hesitated a moment. The silence stretched, and Damian was beginning to believe Tim had no intention of answering. Then: "No one would notice if I was gone anyway."

Damian quirked an eyebrow, disbelieving. _That_ was Drake's problem? He must be more selfish than Damian had originally thought if he actually believed he lacked attention from the rest of the family. As if he didn't get enough of it already. "Care to elaborate?"

To his mild surprise, Drake conceded only after a short pause: "From the beginning, Bruce never chose me as his Robin. I had to force him to take me on, to give me a chance. Heck, even _Dick_ didn't want me to be Robin. I had to earn the right to the role."

Tim combed a hand through his tangled hair, taking a shaky breath as if to prepare for his next words. "In a way, I was proud. Dick and Jason became Robin because Batman picked them, trained them, taught them everything he knew because he wanted to. I proved myself to him, showed him I could do everything...well, nearly everything that Dick and Jason could do and live to tell the tale. But that came at a price: Bruce refused to accept me completely as his partner."

Wait...what? This...didn't compute...

"To him, I was—am—just an expendable asset, another soldier in his endless, self-driven crusade," Tim continued, unaware of Damian's mental block. "I don't think I ever made the rank of equal in his eyes. Not like Dick and Jason did."

"That's not true," Damian mumbled, stricken, but Tim barreled on as if hadn't even heard him.

"I'm just a packhorse. The one in charge of all the projects nobody wants to do. Even as I sit here, the work keeps piling up. I just can't _deal_ with all this anymore. Patrol, Wayne Enterprises, the Teen Titans, Bruce's cases..." Tim closed his eyes, pressing the palm of his free hand into his eye as panic etched itself in every visible feature. "Too much. Nothing I do is enough, never satisfy anyone, never good enough. I can't..." He huffed, breath hitching slightly on the intake. "As you've kindly pointed out on multiple occasions, no one will even notice when my incompetency is gone."

Sucking in a fresh breath, Tim glared at Damian—not so much angry as resigned. "And why am I telling you all this? You never wanted me to exist in the first place."

And Damian so wished he could tell him otherwise. Because Drake was starting to scare him now. The perfect, incorruptible Tim Drake was falling to pieces before his eyes, and Damian didn't know what to do. Especially since he couldn't admit himself to have been any help in the prevention of the current situation in the first place.

He was called back to the present when Drake spoke again, his tone one of deathly finality: "Nobody will miss me much. I mean, they might be sad for awhile, but they'll get over it."

The older teen glared at him, silent, challenging. Damian didn't hesitate to match. Silence stretched between them, Damian's mind working out a response. It didn't take long.

"Father will mourn you till the day he dies," he stated flatly, noticing Tim's slight jump. "Grayson will go crazy with guilt and grief, berating himself for not being a better big brother before he falls apart completely. Todd will blow a gasket and murder every criminal in Arkham. Cain would distance herself and spend years trying to figure out where she went wrong. Pennyworth's heart would break into a million pieces— _again_." Damian fixed him with the Batglare he'd been perfecting for the last year and a half. "And I would hate you for destroying our family with your selfishness."

Because the Wayne family _would_ fall apart. If his father and Grayson were to discover Tim's untimely death, not to mention Damian's failure to prevent it, they would never _ever_ forgive him. Or themselves.

Tim swallowed thickly, hesitation flashing in his eyes. "You already hate me," he offered.

Damian tutted, refraining from laughing aloud at the weak attempt at a counter. "What does my opinion matter?" Really, why would it? "You have won the affections of Grayson, my father, and a whole team of young superheroes. Not to mention Cain and Todd. What do you think the latter two would do if they caught you like this?"

Tim winced.

"Especially Superboy," Damian added. Then, before he could stop himself: "Even I don't actually hate you."

At that, Tim shot him an incredulous look.

"That much," the baby assassin corrected, willing the heat rushing to his cheeks away.

Their eyes locked, blue on blue; one pair challenging, the other stubbornly stoic.

Eventually, Tim huffed. "Fine." The barrel of the gun dipped in his hand, swinging away to face the wall. "Funk over. You can go now."

"Give me the gun, Drake."

Tim blinked, looking genuinely surprised and—apprehensive? "Why?"

Damian snorted; did Drake think he was _stupid_? "If you're truly not planning on blowing your idiotic brains out the moment I step out of this room, then give. Me. The gun."

The utterly confused expression on Tim's face almost— _almost_ —convinced Damian about Tim's true intentions. As if Tim was stumped as to why Damian cared, as if he truly thought he could get away with his little "escape" as soon as Damian wasn't hovering over him.

And then the near-man's expression went frighteningly blank.

The barrel lifted, burrowing into his hair, grip tightening almost absent-mindedly around that dreaded trigger.

"Very well, Drake," Damian announced, forcing aloofness to hide the shake that threatened to leak into his voice. "If you're going, you're going to have to take me with you." Within seconds, Damian flicked his wrist, the familiar weight of the last concealed knife his father had missed sliding into his grip. In the same motion, he directed it upward, pressing the gleaming tip of the blade against his jugular.

"If you refuse to believe everyone—and I mean _everyone_ —will miss you, think of what my father and Grayson would do if they saw me dead," Damian challenged. "And don't think for one second I won't go through with it if you dare pull that trigger, Drake."

There was a pause. Tim blinked slowly, as if just processing the scene before him.

When Damian received no other response than shocked blue eyes staring at the dagger point as if it were some alien object, he resisted the urge to snarl in frustration as an unfamiliar pressure built behind his eyes.

Couldn't Drake _see_? Was he really so blind as to not notice the want and affection all around him? The clear adoration in Dick's eyes whenever he looked at him, the pride and slightly less obvious love in Bruce's at yet another job well done? The way the Titans' faces lit up when he entered the room, the fact that he was the only Batfamily member currently on good terms with a certain Jason Todd?

"Because people _will_ miss you, Drake," Damian managed, eyes now strangely damp. "I only have Grayson and father. But you...you've got actual friends and family who love you not because of what you can _do_ , but just because you're _you_. And that's good enough for them."

Unlike Damian's grandfather. Unlike Damian's _mother_.

The moisture became heavy, warm droplets teetering on his lashes. Was...was he _crying_? Rapidly, Damian blinked the traitorous tears back, determined not to break down in front of Drake, of all people.

"They accept you for who you are, and when you make a mistake, they forgive you," he continued, barely containing a wet sniffle. "They cry with you when you are sad, and laugh along when you are happy. If that's not love, then my interpretations of the concept are inaccurate. And I am never wrong."

"Damian," Tim sighed shakily. "You don't know what you're doing. Put the knife down."

 _Idiot._

"No, it's _you_ who doesn't know what you're doing, Drake," Damian growled. "If you die, everyone is going to shatter with you. And if the only way to make you see sense is to threaten my own life, then so be it."

Tim stared. Realization dawned in his eyes. "You're trying to guilt trip me."

Damian smirked savagely. "I refuse to let you break this family," he said, voice level. "It's the only family I have left. So you remove your fingers from that gun, and I'll drop the knife. It's that simple."

Tim hesitated. To Damian's satisfaction, the slightest hint of doubt crept in the corners of the older teen's vision as he processed this information, gaze never dropping from Damian.

The blade biting into his neck was firm, yet it was all Damian could do to keep his lower lip from trembling. Why was he suddenly so _emotional_? (He blamed Grayson for this.)

And it was in that moment that Damian realized he wasn't doing this because he was avoiding the disappointment that would spring from his father and Grayson when they discovered it was Damian who pushed Tim over the edge. Not even to protect his own, already broken family. No matter how much he despised Drake, no matter how much he insulted him, beat him, ridiculed him...Damian realized he truly didn't want Drake to _die_.

Sure Tim presented the only threat to Damian's inheritance; no matter how many times Jason proclaimed Dick the "Golden Child," it didn't change the fact that Tim was the perfect son. Not only was Tim essentially running Wayne Enterprises single-handed as a minor, but he was inarguably the most like Batman of all of them: Drake's constant drive for the mission, his unbreakable moral code, his uncanny detective skills, and his superior intellect made Drake the perfect candidate to fill both Batman's and Bruce Wayne's shoes.

And so Damian... _feared_ him. Yes. _Feared_. Because why would his father ever glance his way with such a flawless heir already at his beck and call? One that wouldn't think twice about throwing himself in the path of every villain on the planet, including Ra's al Ghul, on a hair splitting quest to prove that Batman wasn't dead despite all rational evidence to the contrary. And Tim had come through.

Damian hadn't done anything like that. He was a murderer. The cast out child of the al Ghul family, the shamed former heir.

But that didn't make him heartless. He wasn't that same impressionable child anymore who believed that stomping on others in order to get your way was an acceptable thing to do. He wasn't the power hungry assassin destined to rule an empire full of pain and suffering.

He was as much al Ghul as he was Wayne. But that didn't mean he would let his past control him.

Drake didn't need to die. Damian didn't _want_ Drake to die. And that was more than sufficient reason to stand his ground.

(It was also in that moment that Damian realized he really _would_ slit his own throat if Drake pulled the trigger.)

"Go ahead," Damian snarled, sending a silent challenge with his eyes over the glistening edge of the knife digging into his skin. "Prove how much of a coward you are, _Drake_. Do it."

The inner turmoil in Drake's mind was palpable, conflict reflecting in his pale blue irises.

Damian's own heart beat pressed against the razor edge of the metal, blood roaring in his ears as his adrenaline spiked. And yet, he forced the knife steady; ready.

 _Please, please, please...don't do this, Drake... This family can't take it..._

All at once, every inch of defiance evaporated from Tim's features. His expression slackened, the gun inching free...

Damian snatched the weapon before Tim's fingers could fully uncurl from the handle. Disgusted, he emptied the cartridge onto the floor, tossing the offensive weapon into the corner of the room, following up with the knife for good measure.

Before Damian fully registered what he was doing, he collapsed to the floor beside the older teen, curling up at Drake's side and clutching the chest of his sweatshirt.

And Tim...tensed a bit. Damian could feel the piercing (broken) blue eyes staring holes in the back of his head.

Briefly, Damian feared his (apology) gesture would be rejected, just resisting the irrational urge to tense in preparation of being thrown away.

But then, "You've been spending too much time with Dick."

Damian ignored the faint flutter of relief in his chest. "Tt. Just shut up and go to sleep, Drake."

* * *

 _This is where the healing begins, oh_

 _This is where the healing starts_

 _When you come to where you're broken within_

 _The light meets the dark, the light meets the dark_

 _~ "Healing Begins" by Tenth Avenue North_


End file.
